The Blue Cloak
by Angel of Harlem
Summary: The story of Faramir and Eowyn, elaborated, lengthened and with added character emotion. I mean, really, Tolkien totally jipped all us F&E fans. R&R por favor! (Done)
1. A Long Night

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Faramir or Éowyn, nor Merry, nor Denethor, nor the Warden, nor Éomer, Aragorn, Théoden, Théodred, the Eagles, Pippin, Frodo or Sam. Which means I'm a) not making any money of this and b) can't set you up with any of them.  
  
Note on the Dialogue: Most of it, as you will probably recognize, is Tolkien's, though I did change one or two things and did add scenes purely from my own imagination. Hence, the dialogue may not be as even as it might, but hopefully it's not particularly jarring.  
  
Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt -  
  
***  
  
Chapter One  
  
A Long Night  
  
He awoke, just barely biting back a scream. Shutting his eyes, he took a deep breath, but he could not keep the shudder out of it. He put his hands to his face, only to find that they were trembling.  
  
Just a dream. he tried to tell himself.  
  
Yes, it had been a dream. Almost.  
  
Moments before he had been surrounded by fire, a mad laugh echoing around the blazing room, and a pricking pain at his arms that he had no doubt had been flames. This night, it had been a dream. But he had been there, in that flaming room, half-dead, thrashing in fever.  
  
He stopped himself. That wasn't the way to get back to sleep. He took another calming breath, and was relieved to find that he had mostly stopped shaking. Mostly, but not quite.  
  
He rubbed his temples and lay back down, but staring at the ceiling, knowing without a doubt that, peaceful or troubled, no more sleep would come to him that night. Resigned, he stood up, pulled on a shirt, and walked out into the gardens.  
  
Maybe he could find peace there.  
  
***  
  
It was still almost three hours before dawn, and the lawns were dark and empty. Faramir walked alone, still trying to shake off the last, lingering effects of the dream. He felt he should have been used to them by now. Every night for the last three nights since he had returned from the shadow- place he'd had the same dream at least once. It seemed no matter how hard he tried, he could do nothing, and every night he woke, trembling, his sheets soaked with sweat.  
  
Perhaps he should not have returned. Perhaps he should have died in that room. Whatever followed death, it was certainly not nightmares. Perhaps.  
  
He fought back the onslaught of perhaps. It was no good-he was alive, and he was going to stay that way, until the Orc forces of Mordor swarmed over the wall of Minas Tirith.  
  
Of course, that fate was probably not too far in the future.  
  
Faramir could still hear the roar of the flames, distant, but still present. It looked as though he dream would haunt him forever. At least, he reflected bitterly, it took the place of the last one, the one he'd had periodically after meeting Frodo and Sam. It was not clear which was worse: his father's insane cackle or the sight of his brother, pierced by ugly black arrows, dying.  
  
Faramir shook his head, trying to clear it. Maybe he was just prone to nightmares. Or maybe his family just had unfortunate luck.  
  
Desperate to find out the reason behind the fire dream, he had spent all of the day before interrogating the healers, as subtly as possible-which, in his case, was quite subtle-trying to piece together what had happened to his father, and to himself. It had not taken much, despite their reluctance to talk about it with him.  
  
Perhaps that was the reason he still found himself surrounded by fire in the darkest hours of the night. Perhaps the knowledge of his father's death would not let him rest.  
  
Faramir stopped and took a long breath. It was his own fault; he was the one who had wanted to know the truth. They had been told not to let him find out, and perhaps it was for good reason. He sighed heavily.  
  
It was going to be a long and painful rest of the night.  
  
He half-laughed to himself. Rest of the night? This night was going to last forever.  
  
It was a shame he wasn't dead yet. Both his father and his brother had died before the last onslaught, final and decided deaths, however dishonorable his father's might have been, or however futile his brother's. Whatever the case, they were no longer there to defend the city, or to be tormented at night with horrible memories.  
  
They would not be there, as Faramir would, when Sauron himself thundered through the gates of Minas Tirith and the West fell.  
  
They had left him alone, alone in a world soon to be destroyed. It was a bitter thought, one that he felt guilty for having, but often times had to cling to so as not to break down completely at his loss.  
  
Faramir had heard that men had been made hopeful by the news that he was not dead. He was gracious and warmly pleased by their praise, but deep inside he knew that they were fools.  
  
There was no hope left.  
  
***  
  
Day came, finally, or as much of a day as one in Minas Tirith could tell. The blackness turned to gray, and the movement on the walls, an hour before inhabited only by the night sentries, came alive, preparing for defense. Faramir watched from below, half relieved and half-regretful that he could not be up there with them.  
  
He walked for a while, sunk in his own thoughts. There was a noise in the garden behind him, and he turned, not startled, just curious to as who would be walking in the gardens in the middle of a siege, besides the grieving and mentally wounded Steward of Gondor.  
  
"My Lord Faramir?"  
  
It was the Warden, but he was no one Faramir hadn't seen many times before. No, what caught his eye and caused him to look in astonishment was the woman standing next to the Warden.  
  
She was beautiful, that was certain, streaming blonde hair and flowing white dress wrapped around a lean body. But it was not what he noticed. What captured his attention was the shadow behind her eyes, of a grief as nearly as deep as his own.  
  
"My lord," stammered the Warden. Faramir could tell he was nervous-after all, who wouldn't be, talking to the son of the man who had just burned himself alive? The son who walked the gardens every night, for no reason anyone could comprehend?  
  
The Warden composed himself. "My lord, here is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan. She rode with the king and was sorely hurt, and now dwells in my keeping. But she is not content, and wishes to speak with the Steward of the City."  
  
She looked up, and met his eyes. And in that one instant, Faramir knew that if their sorrows were rivers, they could combine to fill the Anduin. 


	2. The Chance to Walk a While

Thanks for all your kind remarks! I've got most of this story written - well, all of it, really - but I'll post one chapter at a time, so you can tell me if I'm doing things wrong.  
  
On another note, this chapter might be a tad bit dry, since it's a lot of Tolkien's dialogue. Hopefully it's interesting. Éowyn's not the easiest character to write about, as I'm sure many of you other others have discovered. Anyway, thanks again!  
  
-Daenerys Stormborn  
  
***  
  
Chapter Two  
  
The Chance to Walk a While  
  
To Éowyn, the idea that whoever was at present ruling the city of Minas Tirith could get the Warden to let her leave the city, to fight and die, seemed like a good idea in her room. But now that she stood face to face with the tall, dark haired, gray-eyed and silent Lord, she was shy as any girl. At first, she met his gaze, but her eyes soon dropped to the floor in pre-embarrassment of what she now thought of as a foolish and whimsical request.  
  
But she had come to ask him, and that was what she planned to do.  
  
".And wishes to speak with the Steward of the City."  
  
"Do not misunderstand him, lord," she put in hurriedly. Did she sound ungrateful? "It is not the lack of care that grieves me. No houses could be fairer for those who desire to be healed." She took a breath. "But I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged." Her voice grew bitter. "I looked for death in battle. But I have not died, and the battle still goes on." She swallowed, and looked away again.  
  
Faramir looked at her for a moment, calculating, it seemed, then gestured to the Warden to leave. He did so, with a bow, and left, glad to be away from those whose hearts he knew not how to heal.  
  
Faramir turned back to Éowyn. He looked at her with an expression she could not place before speaking. When he did, his voice was warm, but, just as his eyes, something lurked in his tone, something she could not put her finger on.  
  
"What would you have me do, lady?" he asked. "For I too am a prisoner of the healers." He smiled, and Éowyn could see the pity he felt for her, hear it in his voice. "What do you wish? If it lies in my power, I will do it."  
  
Her anger flared. Pity her, would he? He was no different than the rest. He thought her a weak woman, who did not belong within leagues of the battle. The idea gave her the courage she needed to say what she had come for.  
  
"I would have you command this Warden, and bid him let me go." Her tone was proud, but again, her heart faltered. What would he think now?  
  
She caught herself. What does it matter what he thinks of me? I fought and slew the Witch-king of Angmar! Who is he to judge me?  
  
But somehow, what those gray eyes saw and what this man thought of her meant more than she could quite understand.  
  
"I myself am in the Warden's keeping," Faramir told her gently. "Nor have I yet taken up my authority in the City. But had I done so, I should still listen to his counsel, and should not cross his will in matters of his craft, unless in some great need."  
  
Éowyn flinched minutely at the admonishment, but persevered. "But I do not desire healing," she told him. "I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he has died and has both honor and peace." She looked at him steadily, proudly, though despair clawed at her heart as she heard herself speak of her brother and uncle, gone beyond her reach.  
  
As he looked at her, Éowyn could see a light of understanding kindle in Faramir's eyes, even as they narrowed in curiosity. But before an instant was over, both light and curious expression vanished from his mobile face, and when he spoke, his words were measured.  
  
"It is too late, lady, to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength. But death and battle may come to us all yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to face it in our own manner, if there is still time you do as the Healer commanded. You and I, we must endure with patience the hours of waiting."  
  
At these kind, sensible words, Éowyn's proud stance dissolved, and the despair lurched itself into her heart. Life looked bleak and futile from where she stood, and unbidden, a tear rolled down her cheek.  
  
"But the healers would have me lie abed seven days yet," she whispered. Her voice sank even lower, as if she spoke only to herself. "And my window does not look eastward." She looked helplessly up at the sky, over the eastern wall.  
  
Faramir smiled, and now the pity was clearer than the day. "Your window does not look eastward? That can be amended. In this I can command the Warden. If you will stay in this house in his care, lady, and take your rest, then you shall walk in this garden in the sun, as you will, and you shall look east, whither all our hopes have gone." For a moment, his expression changed, and he spoke thoughtfully and quietly. "And here you will find me, walking and waiting, and also looking east."  
  
Not for the first time did she wonder what was going on behind that face. Hope? Despair? And suddenly, a thought unbidden pushed its way into her head.  
  
And who loved him? For surely here was a man someone could love. Where was she? Hiding? Healing? Dead?  
  
The thought startled Éowyn, and she pushed it to the back of her mind.  
  
"Will you walk with me, Éowyn of Rohan?" he asked her, interrupting her thought. "For it would ease my care, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me." He looked at her kindly, and the questions burned in her mind once more.  
  
"How should I ease your care, my lord?" she asked.  
  
There was a pause. For the first time, the Steward seemed unsure of what to say. Éowyn, mildly suspicious, raised a brow, trying to guess what he was thinking, and soon gave up. Finally, Faramir said, "Would you have my plain answer?"  
  
"I would." Now she was extremely curious.  
  
With only the merest hesitation, Faramir replied, "Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still, but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful." Éowyn gaped at him, then realized that she was and pressed her lips together.  
  
"It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world," continued Faramir, apparently not having noticed her staring, "and when it comes I hope to face it steadily. But it would ease my heart, if while the Sun still shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back." Having finished this rather poetic speech, the Lord of the City looked at her calmly.  
  
For a strange, strange moment, the world spun. She knew she should say something gentle and vague, but all she could think was protest. "Alas, not me, lord," she said. "Shadow lies on me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle."  
  
But another part of her felt differently. How I have longed to hear those words, she thought bitterly, from another man. And now they come from this stranger. But it no longer matters, now. It is over. And so she added-after noticing that Faramir's expression had not changed at all, despite being scorned-"But I thank you for this at least, that I need not keep to my chamber. I will walk abroad by the grace of the Steward of the City." Then she turned and began to walk away.  
  
Three or four steps later she stopped, and turned. The dark-haired man too was walking away, and as Éowyn watched him go, a wave of loneliness engulfed her. Could she just walk away so willingly from company?  
  
'For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back.' Would he understand? Was he too haunted by dark dreams? She hesitated, and then wondered why. One less proud would have admitted fear, but Éowyn would not, even to herself.  
  
Something spurred her to go, and never was she sure what exactly it was. But it made her run to him, to lay a hand on his shoulder. And when he turned to face her even his mask could not disguise the joy.  
  
"Faramir," she said, then stopped. It was all that needed being said. Only later did she realize it was the first time she had said his name.  
  
And so they walked, and they talked, and for a while, even the shadow of Mordor could not dampen the joy they felt at no longer being alone. 


	3. For Granted

Well, the first chapter where I didn't steal Tolkien's dialogue. Not sure if it made it better or worse, but I'll let you be the judge of that.  
  
Chapter Three  
  
For Granted  
  
He was home, where he belonged. He was sitting in the open fields, his back pressed against the rough but still comforting bark of the Party Tree. His eyes were closed, but in his mind's eye he could see all that lay before him. There was Bagshot Row, the line of trees nearby, the hobbit children playing in the grassy expanse that surround him, a place where nature prevailed over all. It was so different from everything he had seen on his journey.  
  
His journey? Had he ever returned from that?  
  
It wasn't important; he was home now.  
  
A squirrel clambered up the tree above him, its paws rapping softly against the wood. He smiled, and wondered what the animal's hurry was. It wouldn't be winter for months yet.  
  
But strangely, the sound of rapping continued, and it did not seem to be above him, but below him. And if it was summer, why was there such a chill breeze? And was that a voice calling his name?  
  
"Excuse me?" said the voice again. "Are you Meriadoc the Halfling?"  
  
Irritated that his dream of happiness had been interrupted and that he was no longer in the Shire but in the dull gardens of Minas Tirith, Merry opened an eye and peered down from his tree branch to see who was calling him. As he saw the man, a flash of memory choked him and for a moment, he struggled with reality.  
  
It's Boromir! his mind shouted wildly. He's come back!  
  
But the truth won out over the fantasies in an instant, and as he looked at the man below he realized the differences. He had the same raven hair, but it was longer, almost more like Aragorn's. The eyes too, were more concealed, more shadowed, but somehow keener and wiser than Boromir's had been. Looking at him, Merry thought of Aragorn, and of Gandalf, and of Elves.  
  
"I trust I didn't wake you?" said the man below, who, the hobbit realized suddenly, could only be the Lord Faramir, Boromir's brother. And, unless he was very much mistaken, the Lord and Steward of the City of Minas Tirith.  
  
"No, no, just daydreaming," he said to Faramir. "Were you. did you want something from me?"  
  
Faramir smiled slightly and shook his head. "Only to talk, if you are not previously occupied." His smile widened genuinely as the hobbit swung his legs off the branch so that they hung off the branch. "Sit, sit," Merry assured him. "Daydreams may be put off for a chance to speak with one so honorable as yourself." In truth, he knew only of Faramir's valor from Pippin and Gandalf's tales of what had happened whilst he had been in Rohan, but it seemed like an appropriate thing to say.  
  
Faramir laughed softly. "I am not sure I am worthy of this praise. It is probable that it is I who should be praising you, for your great deeds." He looked at Merry, and the hobbit saw that there was no hint of mocking in the man's comment. He began to realize for the first time that people knew of what he'd done.  
  
He blushed, much to his embarrassment, but it was possible Faramir did not see it as he sat down beside the tree and stretched his long legs out before him, his languid movements in comic contrast to the hobbit's quicker, blunter ones.  
  
"It really wasn't me," he told Faramir. "It was Dernhelm-or Éowyn, I should say. I forget, you know, that they were the one and the same. It's all a bit muddled. What with Frodo and Sam in Mordor, and Pippin off with the Captains."  
  
Merry didn't know it, but Faramir could see the sadness in the hobbit's eyes, hear the loneliness in his voice. He smiled sympathetically and nodded, but did not speak for some time.  
  
Finally he said softly, "Yes, Éowyn. You traveled with her? While she was disguised as a man?""  
  
Merry nodded. "Yes. Her uncle, King Théoden-" At the name Merry felt a flash of grief that threatened to bring tears, for he missed the old man dearly. He fought them back and continued, "he wouldn't let her come and fight. But she wouldn't be left behind." He managed a small smile. "There's no taming that woman."  
  
"No?"  
  
Merry's smile widened at his memories of Éowyn's strong will. "No, none at all." A thought occurred to him then. "Except. one might. Just one."  
  
Faramir looked up, and even his carefully masked face could not conceal his interest. "One? Which, if I may be so bold as to ask?"  
  
"The Lord Aragorn," Merry answered, his voice low. He remembered everything, now, after days of trying as hard as he could not to think about his loneliness and thus not thinking of any of the Rohirrim. Éowyn's obvious misery at Aragorn's lack of affection toward her, her despair in the last moments before her transformation into Dernhelm, and the equally sad expression on Aragorn's face as he had called her back from death's doorstep, then quickly left her with her brother.  
  
"She loved him," he continued, but almost more to himself than to Faramir, who, under very close inspection, was bearing the expression of a man working to not look as interested as he was. "But he couldn't give it back, for he is betrothed to the Lord Elrond's daughter, Arwen Undómiel. But I think he felt for Éowyn, even if it was only pity."  
  
Below him, Faramir said nothing. The Steward appeared to be deep in thought, seemingly musing on Merry's words. The silence gave the hobbit time to do his own wondering on the stern faced yet soft spoken man, so different from his brother, who Merry had liked well. The appearance had tricked him at first, but he could see that there the similarities ended, for the most part.  
  
When Faramir he spoke again, his tone was light and the subject had changed.  
  
"Tell me about your home, Master Meriadoc. I had not the chance to ask your cousin, what with-" he stopped abruptly and swallowed. It took Merry a moment of thought to figure out why this seemed so sudden.  
  
He realized it was the first slip of composure he had seen the man commit. But before a second's time, Faramir had collected himself and continued, "What with his duties for my father, and for Gandalf. Yet I dearly would like to hear of a place such as the one I have heard you come from."  
  
Merry could not help thinking of Théoden, the King who had asked him to tell this very tale. Yet Faramir did seem interested, and anything was better than grieving, worrying and wistful dreaming. So Merry began to tell his tale. Maybe Théoden was listening, somehow, somewhere.  
  
But after a time, his tale began to slide into his journey with Frodo and the Fellowship. He thought the Steward would want to hear of his brother, but at the first mention of this, Faramir held up a hand.  
  
"Your pardon, Meriadoc, but that is not the tale I wished to hear today." He looked at the sky and smiled slightly. "Forgive me, I have kept you long at this."  
  
"No forgiveness is necessary, my Lord," said Merry quickly, worried he had bored the man, and for a moment he wondered how Faramir knew how long they had spoken. The sky was still its regular, monotonous, sullen gray.  
  
The Steward of Minas Tirith and Gondor stood, and looked out to the East. He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, and his face was so full of emotions that Merry could not even begin to decipher them.  
  
Softly, Faramir spoke. Merry wasn't immediately sure if the Steward had spoken to himself or to Merry.  
  
"Have you ever. ever taken anything for granted?"  
  
Deciding to answer-for if Faramir had spoken to himself in such a way it was likely that he wouldn't hear the response in any case-Merry's mind washed over everything in his life. Of course, he had taken days for granted, friends, memories. But hadn't everyone?  
  
He looked to where Faramir's gaze rested, and all of a sudden he was struck with a terrible wave of homesickness. The familiar questions came to mind. What was he doing here? Why were Frodo and Sam trekking through that horrible, dangerous place?  
  
"My life," he murmured. "The safety of the Shire. I didn't know. I didn't know how much it mattered to me until I didn't have it anymore." He shook his head, and looked up at Faramir, who didn't appear to be listening, but Merry was relatively sure he was.  
  
"And you?" asked the hobbit, subduing his own sadness, or at least putting it aside for a time. It was a polite rejoinder, but it was also born out of the unquenchable curiosity of a hobbit.  
  
Faramir turned to look at him, and Merry was taken aback by the misery that lurked behind that proud face. The words that came were even, but it seemed to Merry that at any moment the man's misery would choke him.  
  
But Faramir only answered, "Of course. Who has not?" He looked away, not over the east wall, but to Rath Dínen, the Silent Street.  
  
Of course, thought Merry. He had heard the stories, of course. He too knew how difficult it was to keep a secret in Minas Tirith.  
  
And he thought again of Boromir, of that day on Parth Galen, but only now did he see how much harder his death must have been on his brother than on Merry, who had only known him half a year. Faramir turned back to him, and but for the sad half-smile, he appeared as calm as one speaking of the weather.  
  
"Do not let me trouble you with my own sorrows, Master Meriadoc."  
  
The hobbit took the proffered hand with his own, smaller one and shook it. He smiled weakly and replied, not without reverence, "My Lord Faramir."  
  
As Merry watched the Steward leave, the full reality of Faramir's life struck him. He realized that at least Pippin was alive, or to the best of his knowledge. No one knew for certain if Frodo and Sam had perished. Théoden was gone, but in honor, after a long life. Éomer and Aragorn had a chance of return.  
  
i What must it be like, /i he wondered, i to be so totally and definitely alone? /i  
  
He hoped he would never have to know. 


	4. To Lose What Was Found

In case anyone was anxiously waiting for an update - ha - I'm sorry it took me a little while to post this. I have it all written, but I've been very busy, and when I wasn't busy I was very lazy, so I didn't get around to it. But here it is.  
  
***  
  
Chapter Four  
  
To Lose what was Found  
  
She came across him as he was walking beneath the trees, and almost she called his name. Then she saw that he was deep in thought, and, thinking he was alone, was also not guarding his emotions.  
  
So, instead of alerting Faramir to her presence, Éowyn watched him, trying to learn as much as about him he had about her at their first meeting. But all he looked was slightly confused, as one trying to reason an illogical puzzle. Meanwhile, she noticed, he was absently twisting the ring on the smallest finger of his left hand. The symbol of the Stewardship, she remembered.  
  
He was approaching steadily, and she knew that if she did not speak he would know that she had been watching him. So she called to him and he looked up, and for a moment, a tiny, tiny moment, his face was exposed.  
  
The Steward looked at her, and the White Lady's breath caught at what she saw. Something inside told her that she might never see anyone look at her this way ever again, and without thinking her heart reached out for it.  
  
Then she realized what she was doing, and recoiled. Faramir, too, blinked, then somehow it was gone, whatever it had been. Gently he smiled and fell into step beside her. And it looked, for all the world, as though the emotion that had just a second ago covered his face and filled his eyes had never existed.  
  
But Éowyn could not forget, and desperately she wanted to ask him about it, but had no idea how to phrase it. So instead she remained coldly silent, until it started to concern the man walking next to her.  
  
"Lady?"  
  
She did not look at him. Trying to find something to occupy her eyes, Éowyn turned to the east wall, where ever her eyes turned. Something uncomfortably warm boiled inside her, and she didn't know what it was. "I'm tired," she said shortly.  
  
Faramir didn't say anything, which chafed at Éowyn's already reduced short temper. What was it about him that did this to her? Why did she feel like pouring her heart out to him, and what was it that, at the same time, held her back?  
  
"And." She couldn't fit it into words. They were gone, all of them, Éomer and Aragorn to the Black Gate, and Théodred and Théoden to their rest. And she alone, as always, left behind and forgotten. Caged. But he would never understand, this proud, solemn man beside her.  
  
Yet despite her conviction in that, the Steward said softly, "I know." Éowyn's eyes burned; she wanted something, but she didn't know what it was. Confused and lonely, she retreated back inside herself, trying to find something she knew. All she could uncover, though, was isolation. and anger.  
  
So, without thinking, she turned the anger on him. "How would you know?" she hissed, stopping in her tracks and turning to face him. Rage made her brave, and it was, perhaps, the only thing that kept her looking into Faramir's eyes. "You've never been left behind, been locked away. Been looked over." The sudden flash in his eyes made her take a step back.  
  
"Never been looked over?" he asked quietly, but his voice was strained. Only now did Éowyn see the rashness of her words. She knew little to nothing about him. had she misjudged?  
  
As if he could read her thoughts-which, she thought bitterly, would not be overly surprising-Faramir continued, in the same, tense voice, "I do not think, my Lady, that you are one to judge me."  
  
"Nor you me," Éowyn returned sharply, but her heart was crying for this argument to be over. Fighting was for the Enemy, and Faramir was the only friend she had in this City. But her pride never listened to her heart.  
  
Faramir's jaw was tight, his eyes hard. "I did not. I presumed only that you would wish to share your loneliness with another who thought he might understand." Coldly, he added, "Apparently, I was wrong."  
  
Oh, thought Éowyn, and suddenly she remembered. Only fragments of stories, but one thing a servant somewhere had said came back to her then with terrible distinctness.  
  
'They give him no rest. The Lord drives his son too hard, and now he must do the duty of two, for himself and for the one that will not return.'  
  
How had she forgotten? Steward of Gondor! Of course his father had been Denethor, and his brother Boromir, Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas's companion. Éowyn cursed herself in vain for not making the connection sooner, but it was too late.  
  
Slowly she turned her eyes to Faramir, pleading. I'm sorry, she wanted to tell him, had to tell him, but Denethor's son turned and slowly walked away from her.  
  
"Faramir," she tried to say, but she choked on the word. As he disappeared around the corner into some passage of Minas Tirith that she had yet to discover, Éowyn felt tears spilling from her eyes. Reluctantly, she tore her gaze from where Faramir had disappeared and climbed the walls, with feet heavier than lead.  
  
( (  
  
When he returned, she was standing on the walls. He saw her wince as she heard his footsteps treading lightly up the stairs, and she did not turn to look at him. The words they had spoken earlier had not left her, Faramir knew.  
  
They had not left him either, of course, but he was not going to bring that up now. Better to forget, or at least put them aside. They had been harsh and careless, the words of troubled hearts in a hopeless place. He had been wrong to become angry with her. In fact, he reflected, it might have been the most personal thing she had yet said to him. He only hoped she was not furious with him.  
  
Yet Éowyn did not seem unhappy to see him. In fact, she looked rather relieved. Perhaps, thought Faramir, she had not meant to pry into parts that were still healing in him. Maybe she just hadn't known. It was a somewhat comforting thought.  
  
"I brought you something," he said softly, coming to stand next to her. Éowyn turned to him, and he knew that despite herself she was curious. She watched silently as he unrolled the blue cloak, made of a fine, heavyweight material, with stars embroidered on the hem and throat.  
  
"It's beautiful," she told him. "Where did you get it?"  
  
Faramir smiled a little, the new pain receding and the old surfacing. "It was my mother's," he said as he traced the pattern of stars along the edge, remembering those days long past, those days when they had all still been alive. Without another word, he spread it out and swiftly had settled it about her shoulders. Éowyn could not keep the smile from her face as she fastened the clasp at her throat. The cloak settled over her protectively, thick and warm.  
  
Wrapping it closer around her, for a chill wind had started, she tried to conceal a grin and asked, "Well? How do I look?"  
  
Faramir looked at her for a moment, thinking of how to answer that question. She looked nothing like his mother, needless to say. He was not used to seeing someone else wearing that cloak; it had been locked away for how many years now?  
  
But she was beautiful, and it gave him both pride and sorrow to see her like that. After another moment's consideration, Faramir replied, "Like a queen."  
  
Éowyn looked at him for a moment, evidently unsure of what he meant by this. She looked away, and for half a second Faramir thought he had said the wrong thing. There was irony in that though he no longer had to watch what he said in front of his father, but now he worried that he might say something to drive Éowyn away. However, his fears were abated when she spoke.  
  
"Does not the Black Gate lie yonder? And must he not now be come there? It is seven days since he rode away."  
  
"Seven days," he agreed, looking now in the same direction she was. "But think not ill of me, if I say to you that they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know."  
  
As she turned her face to him, he was unable to keep from reaching a hand to her face. Gently he touched her cheek, two pairs of gray eyes staring into each other. Unwittingly, he moved closer to her.  
  
"Lose what you have found?" she asked softly, eyes locked on his. "I know not what in these days you have found that you could lose."  
  
Unsure of what this meant, if she knew how he felt and was trying, gently, to let him down, or if she simply did not see, he decided not to comment. Instead, he dropped his hand and looked back out to the east. He did not see the flicker of disappointment in her eyes, nor did he feel her hand clasp his own.  
  
"It reminds me of Númenor," he said quietly. "Of a darkness inescapable." Another type of nightmares that haunted him. He didn't know why he had mentioned it, having not mentioned it to anyone in more than twenty years.  
  
She drew closer to him. "You think it comes here? Darkness inescapable?"  
  
Turning back to her, Faramir smiled. "No," he reassured. "It was but a picture in my mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days."  
  
But he knew this not to be true, or at least he hoped, desperately, that it was not. "But my heart says nay," he continued, and was gladdened by the flicker of hope in her face, "for a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny." Again, he touched her face. "Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure." He lifted her face.  
  
Éowyn's eyes closed, anticipating the kiss. But the moment his lips touched hers, her eyes flew open and she pushed him away. He released her instantly, trying to keep the bitter remorse from showing on his face. For the first time in a long while, he had misjudged. He looked to Éowyn. What he saw in her face destroyed any words that might have come.  
  
In that fair face, Faramir saw regret, sadness and, to add to his anguish, fear. But before he could begin to hate himself for frightening her, he saw another emotion. He saw hope in those gray eyes, and in that moment, he knew that she cared for him. This in itself gave him more joy than he could ever remember feeling.  
  
Yet before he could speak, before any reassuring words had left his mouth, Éowyn had turned and walked swiftly down the stairs in a flash of blue and white.  
  
Faramir watched the stair she had exited by, then closed his eyes. Part of him was irritated with himself; he wasn't usually one for falling to emotion. But another part of him cried out for her. This part was stronger, and he found himself agreeing with it.  
  
Be careful, the first part said. She's hurting.  
  
And so am I.  
  
Suddenly, there was a cry on the winds. Faramir looked up and saw eagles flying towards the City. And when he heard the message they bore, tears unchecked streamed down his face.  
  
Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor, for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,  
and the Dark Tower is thrown down.  
  
Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard, for your watch hath not been in vain, and the Black Gate is broken and your King hath passed through,  
and he is victorious.  
  
Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West, for your King shall come again, and shall dwell among you  
all the days of your life.  
  
And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed, and he shall plant it in the high places,  
and the City shall be blessed.  
  
Sing all ye people! 


	5. Just a Dream

Chapter Five  
Just a Dream  
  
Thoroughly overwhelmed, Éowyn slumped down on her bed, looking at the wall but not seeing it. Her mind was flooded with too many emotions for her to keep track of, much less control. A tear slid from her eye. Hurriedly she wiped it away with the corner of the blue cloak.  
  
As she brought the fabric away from her face, she stared at it. Could she keep it now, now that she had pushed him away?  
  
And speaking of that, how could she ever face him again? Would he scorn her for not surrendering to him? The thought would have made her angry if she had thought there was any truth in it. But she knew him better than that.  
  
The people were singing in the streets, but all Éowyn could think of was Faramir, his eyes, his face, his hands. The captains return, she told herself, trying to divert her mind. Aragorn returns. We've won. But victory meant nothing if the King and her brother did not return.  
  
Unbeknownst to her mind, Éowyn's hand began to stroke the cloak, fingers entwining in the thick, soft cloth. She continued to stare at the wall. Despite her efforts, her mind returned to the Steward.  
  
What did it mean? Did he love her? The idea, to her chagrin, frightened her.  
  
No, it was simply pity, pity that she did not want. Pity that she detested.  
  
There was a stirring in her heart and she fought to ignore it, to not think about what it was. It was nothing.  
  
Éowyn buried her face in Faramir's blue cloak and wished that Aragorn was there with her. She needed to be loved, now. For the first time in a long while, she was out of her own control. It was not a pleasant feeling.  
  
'Like a queen,' he had said. What had he meant? Surely he hadn't meant Aragorn's queen. Did he know . . .?  
  
Twining her fingers together, Éowyn forced herself to stop thinking about it. There was no point to it. To many questions and no answers, that was all she had. With a sigh, she lay down, using the cloak as a pillow. Within moments, she was asleep.  
  
When she next opened her eyes, it was night. Strangely, it felt as though there was something behind her on the bed. She tried to remember what it might be, but for some reason her memory was fuzzy.  
  
Was it just her imagination, or had something moved behind her? But before she could turn around and see, she felt arms encircle her waist, and felt herself drawn into what was undoubtedly a man's embrace.  
  
She smiled to herself as gentle lips moved over her neck and shoulders. He had come at last. She had known he would. She loved him.  
  
Comfortably warm, she rolled over to see his face, framed by dark hair. A pair of gray eyes met her own, but what she saw pulled the smile from her face.  
  
It was not Aragorn who looked back at her. Where Aragorn's face was weathered and rugged, this one was younger and clean-shaven. It was kind where Aragorn's was strong, its pride, though no less, was hidden where the other's was evident.  
  
And the eyes . . . Gray, yes, and keen, but warm and compassionate, rather than cold and distant. And filled with a love so strong she wondered why it had not killed him to express it before.  
  
She knew that face, but never would she have thought to see it here. Yet she did not pull away, felt no surge of disappointment. And as he tenderly took possession of her mouth with his own, her heart lifted for the first time in so long . . .  
  
Éowyn's eyes snapped open, and she sat up abruptly. Looking down, she saw that her hands were shaking violently. She clutched the nearest thing to her to stop them, then released it instantly when she realized it was the cloak.  
  
Her mind was flooded with the images from the dream. Remembering, she flipped over to make sure there really wasn't anyone beside her. To her relief-and maybe, just maybe, a hint of regret-there was no one.  
  
She realized there was a name unspoken on her lips. But she hesitated to say it aloud, afraid of what that would mean.  
  
No, it was just a dream.  
  
Still, she could not say the word, did not want to admit that she had dreamed of him. Because that was all it had been. Just a dream. Just a bizarre, twisted, and altogether meaningless dream. It meant nothing, except that she longed for Aragorn to return, to love her. She had heard the eagles' message. He would return. And as for the man whose name hovered on her tongue . . .  
  
Just a dream.  
  
So thinking, Éowyn lay down again, but she did not hang up the cloak. Instead she pressed her face into the material and inhaled. It smelled of him, strongly. That was where the dream had come from, she reasoned.  
  
As she drifted off to sleep, Éowyn thought for a moment that she could hear a young boy's laughter in the wind outside her window-the one that now faced eastward. And as her eyes closed, she was sure there was happiness close by.  
  
***  
  
The night was cold, and the rock he lay on was colder. There were voices screaming in his head, and the sounds of waves crashing, and of something whispering poisoned words. With a moan of pain he cried out, for his father, his brother, even his long-dead mother, anyone.  
  
Before, no one had ever responded. But this time, a voice somewhere said his name. For a moment he thought it was nothing more than another lie, the fever voices speaking to it. Then he recognized it.  
  
Painfully he forced his eyes open, trying to focus on the pale face above him. Unable to speak, he reached for her, mouth moving wordlessly. She smiled and laid a slender finger on his dry, cracked lips. Who needed words, in any case?  
  
Suddenly his heart clenched. It was coming; he knew it. And it seemed she knew it too, for she pulled her hand away and looked apprehensively about.  
  
No, he thought, no, please, don't leave me . . . Reaching out, he seized her wrist with a thin hand, begging her to stay.  
  
Then it began.  
  
Heat blossomed around them, shadows dancing on the walls in evil delight. She cried out and tugged, trying to get away. But he wouldn't let go, couldn't let go. She was all he had; if he let go, she would be gone forever.  
  
Please, don't go . . .  
  
Flames began licking at the hem of her dress, sparks catching in her golden hair. She screamed, desperately trying to free herself, but to no avail. He felt his own clothing aflame, but still he did not release her.  
  
Please . . .  
  
With one final shriek of agony and terror, the flames consumed her. Fire rippled down her arm until his own hand was so burned he no longer knew if he grasped her or not. Was it someone else laughing, or was it him? No, it couldn't be him, for his heart was wrenched, and his eyes stung with tears that he could not shed.  
  
Please . . .  
  
This time Faramir did cry out, and when he woke his face was wet with tears. It took him longer than usual to realize where he was. When he did, he stared at the far wall, reality seeping back in. With a small moan he fell back onto the bed.  
  
Just when I thought it was gone. It occurred to him that he hadn't had the dream since meeting her. In fact, he was startled to realize, he hadn't had any of his vivid nightmares since then. But now, now he had scared her, and in doing so would not sleep until he knew she was at peace. That was all. He was just upset about that.  
  
But Faramir could not lie to himself. He would not lose her in war, that at least was certain now. Yet would he himself drag her down in his own troubles? Did he deserve her?  
  
The thought of walking the gardens now brought no peace, and when he looked out the window-the east window-the sun was rising. Even that did not lift his heart as much as it should have.  
  
Deciding that the odds of him falling back to sleep were rather small, Faramir stood and dressed, then slumped down in his armchair by the window and watched the sun rise over the mountains. But his thoughts were not of the Captains, and though he looked out the window, it was not the sun he saw.  
  
*  
  
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Hey guys, this chapter has been updated because I got my dates wrong! No dessert for me tonight. =D 


	6. The Steward and the King

Wow, sorry this is so late in coming! I could have sworn I posted this chapter. *taps temple* It's going, it really is . . . Well, thanks so much for getting to the end! I'm impressed. =) Thank you for your kindness. I  
don't take well to flaming.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Chapter Six  
  
The Steward and the King  
  
Time passed. Days, weeks, she lost track of time. The sun seemed only a mockery to her, abandoned in the City that was not her home.  
  
Éowyn walked alone in the gardens, her heart heavy. She cursed her misery, as there was no cause for it. The Dark Lord had fallen, and Aragorn was alive and well. They had won. The war was over. The long years of darkness that had been her former life were gone; it was time to start anew.  
  
Start again, she thought, but start again where?  
  
It the midst of her musing, a messenger, no more than a lad, ran up behind her. "My-my Lady?" he asked. She turned to look at him.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Y-your brother sends for you. At the celebrations. O-on the field of Cormallen, in Ithilien. He asks if you will join him."  
  
"Éomer asks for me?" she asked slowly. The boy nodded. "But, Éomer only?" The boy nodded again. Her voice caught with suppressed misery. "No one else has sent word to me?" Confused and a little frightened, the boy shook his head no.  
  
"Very well then," she told him. She turned away, and walked steadily up the nearby stairs to the wall, leaving the boy alone and puzzled. Éowyn did not see him turn and run to the Warden's small house.  
  
***  
  
Éowyn stared down at the field below. Her mind wandered, wondering if she should answer her brother's message or not. Something held her back.  
  
It would mean leaving the city, going to Ithilien. It would mean travelling long miles, to what? To see Aragorn? Even the thought of him left a bitter, remorseful taste in her mouth. What good would it do her to see him now?  
  
Wrapped up in her own thoughts, she jumped when a voice behind her spoke her name.  
  
"Éowyn."  
  
She recognized the voice, even without turning. But she turned to face him anyway, wondering why he had come up here, with all he had to do to prepare for the coming of the King. Suddenly, she remembered with terrible clarity the dream she had had, all that time ago. She swallowed and pushed it away.  
  
"Faramir."  
  
He smiled, and moved towards her. She swallowed and turned back to stare across the empty field. She felt him put his hand gently on her shoulder. She made a half- hearted attempt to shrug it off, and he let it fall.  
  
"Éowyn, why do you tarry here, and do not go to the rejoicing in Cormallen, beyond Cair Andros, where your brother awaits you?" His voice was soft, and she had a feeling he already knew the answer.  
  
"Do you not know?" she asked him, without turning. The question was flat, emotionless, but something inside her was aching, aching to be let out. And she was intensely aware of how close he was standing to her.  
  
"Two reasons there may be, but which is true, I do not know."  
  
She looked back briefly, to say, "I do not wish to play at riddles. Speak plainly!"  
  
He smiled sadly, and that sad smile made the thing in her ache all the more, so she turned away. "Then if you will have it so, lady," he began, and she winced.  
  
"You do not go, because only your brother called for you, and to look on the Lord Aragorn, Elendil's heir, in his triumph would now bring you no joy." There, he had said it. She closed her eyes, unwilling to look at him.  
  
"Or because," he continued calmly, unflustered, "I do not go, and you desire to be near me."  
  
Too clearly she saw his face as it had been in her dream. Teeth clenched, she tried desperately to forget. Nothing, it meant nothing. Just as there was nothing left for her now that Aragorn had not remembered her.  
  
"And maybe for both of these reasons, and you yourself cannot choose between them. Éowyn, what is it you wish for?"  
  
Her voice was choked. "I wish to be loved by another. But I desire no man's pity." She realized his hand was on her shoulder again, but this time she made no move to get it off. There were tears starting in her eyes, and she hated them.  
  
"That I know," he responded. For the first time, she heard a change in his tone. "You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high, and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth."  
  
She cringed at the bitterness in his voice, the thin, almost hidden edge of desperation. His words became harder, but his voice did not rise. "And as a captain may to a young soldier, he seemed to your admirable. For so he is, a lord among men, the greatest now that is."  
  
The ache inside her was painfully strong. His words should not have hurt her as they did; there was no anger, nothing threatening. But still, she wanted to block her ears to him, to make him stop telling her this. A helpless tear trickled down her cheek. But he continued.  
  
"But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle." His voice shook, and the next words came out as a whisper, however commanding.  
  
"Look at me, Éowyn!"  
  
Slowly, so slowly, she turned all the way around, and looked up into his face, into his gray eyes. She did not blink, but she could not speak, either. No longer could she forget the dream.  
  
And Faramir looked into her eyes, and slowly brought the hand that had rested on her shoulder up, and gently ran it through her hair. She could feel the hand trembling, and closed her eyes against the tears. One escaped and trickled down.  
  
"Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart. But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten." His hand ran down her face gently, brushing away the tear. "And you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the Elven-tongue to tell.  
  
"And I love you."  
  
Suddenly, Éowyn felt a stirring in her heart, and the ache began to subside into something else. He gently cupped her chin in his hand, and tilted her face so that their eyes met.  
  
"Once I pitied your sorrow." His voice had sunk to a whisper, his face just inches from hers. "But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you. Éowyn, do you not love me?"  
  
She looked into his eyes, and there she understood. The heart of Éowyn changed then, and the ache became a fierce and overwhelming love. Finally, finally, she understood, and wondered how she had not seen it before.  
  
"No longer do I desire to be a queen," she breathed.  
  
And the tears that had been stinging behind her eyes subsided, as Faramir's face relaxed into a grin.  
  
"That is well," he said, "for I am not a king." Then he caught her mouth gently with his own, and his arms dropped around her waist, beneath the blue cloak that she still wore, despite everything, and pulled her close.  
  
All former cares evaporated in an instant. Flinging her misery to the winds, Éowyn curled her arms around Faramir's neck, knees shaking so hard that she was sure that if he hadn't been holding her up, she would have fallen. Joy bubbled up inside her even as she returned the kiss with every bit of passion she had in her.  
  
There was something pure born in that moment. Something untainted by sadness, jealousy or desire. Something that would last until the end of time and beyond, through grief and war and strife. Something immortal.  
  
She was trembling. He was trembling. But they clung to each other, and together they stood, in the tower of Minas Anor, and the last of the shadow of Sauron passed from Middle-Earth, forever. 


End file.
